Symmetry
by BlueAzalea
Summary: AU, takes place before the season two episode "Abomination." Lydia and Derek are connected by the bite from Peter Hale, but before they can understand how or why, they have to discover each other.
1. Chapter 1

1.

Certain words are more than words to Lydia. Of course, she understands that English is not a symbolic language, in that words in her mother tongue are composed of letters and not ideas, unlike, say, Japanese. She knows this, but there are some words that are more.

Words like _symmetry_. From the Greek symmetria, meaning "measure together." This word is not letters but a vision of his face, hidden in shadows but still familiar. She began seeing him after waking up in the hospital. Well, the two of them. The one who bit her – she saw him first, and still sees him. She knew from the first that he was wrongness and badness because the way that she saw him (under the ice, wandering the school hallways) was wrong and bad. But the other was good and right. Him she saw under her sheets, standing behind her bedroom door. A secret. Like Scott to Allison. But more because he was _her_ secret.

Secrets mattered to him. It's like she could _remember_ that about him, but how was that possible, since he wasn't real?

Understand that Lydia was never interested in secrets or hidden things. What was the point? Things had value or they didn't. Value of a thing is primarily derived from the extent to which others covet it, and if others don't know that the thing exists…well, no point. Simple, logical. She indulged Allison's secret because she knew how much it meant to her best (only) friend to keep Scott. Allison loves Scott. Allison is fierce and brave and passionate.

Not Lydia. She is cold, she is careful and precise. She respects order because it is ever under siege by chaos, and she craves stability and definition because she knows that even though these things are not glamorous to foodies or hipsters, they are the antidote to war and confusion. This is not to say that she has no feelings, because she does. And she understands people, the things that drive them. She knows Stiles is in love with her, and she knows that Jackson is now (and has always been) in love with himself. What does she love?

Mom. Dad. Allison. Calculus.

_Him_.

No, he's not real.

Unless he is.

Actually, she was convinced that he was some kind of manifestation of her suppressed memories of those two days she was naked and running around the woods and somehow did not die of thirst or exposure (and in fact was not even the worse for wear) until the night that Stiles caught her crying in her car. He had seemed like he was going to listen to her tell him about the broken mirror and the blood and the men with glowing eyes – the one who bit her (really) and the one who kissed her (but not really) – but then he hadn't come back. He had left her alone.

Because sometimes the people closest to you can be the ones holding you back the most.

And so she had gone home and crawled into bed. She had just given up on the idea of sleep when she plunged deep into a dream.

In the dream, she lives in a house in the woods. Her family's house. The sun streams in through the windows and makes her feel young and powerful. Pictures of long dead relatives hang on the walls. The bad and wrong man is sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book (the cover reads _Le Signe du Loup-Garou_) and eating cereal. She finds this funny because how could she ever have been scared of him?

"Peter," she says, and he looks at her. "Eat, then read."

She is sort of kidding but sort of not, and he gives her a look (resentful) before putting down the book and giving the cereal his full attention.

"You're annoyed with me now," she tells him, "but you'll thank me later when you don't have milk spilled on the pages of a three hundred-year-old hand-illuminated volume on supernatural creatures."

"Yes, Laura," he sing-songs, not looking at her. "Whatever you say."

"He's going to kill you."

That voice. _His _voice.

Lydia turns around and looks and sees him plainly for the first time, no shadows or moonglow obscuring him but instead the bright day on his face. He stands in the doorway, dark hair wet from the shower. He is beautiful. And so, so sad.

"Won't you save me?" She asks. He doesn't answer, and she rises from her chair and goes to him, touches his cheek and watches, fascinated, as his eyes close for a heartbeat, then open. They glow blue, then turn angry red.

"You're the Alpha now." She leans forward and nuzzles his neck. She is not afraid of him either. "You can change things."

He cups her face in his hands and draws her back to look in his glowing ember eyes. "Say my name."

"Derek." _Derek_. He has a name. And she knows it, has always known it. But here, in this house, is he going to call her Laura, like Peter did? Does he think she's someone else too? She slips a hand down to the small of his back. He is hot to the touch. "Say my name."

It feels like his skin is burning her hand. He leans down and kisses her, and yes he's done that before in her visions of him but this is _more_, this is devouring. Something in her blood, something in her bones is singing, screaming, shouting. She wants to press closer, be nearer. Her hands curl into the soft cotton of his shirt and she thinks about trying to tear it off of him so she can feel all of him against all of her. She makes a noise like a growl and he makes the noise back. Her edges are blurring; it feels like _something_ is about to happen. She is on the verge of being unmade.

He pulls away and presses his mouth against the thin skin over her collarbone, where she is vulnerable.

"Lydia," he breathes. He is trembling. She knows then that he will do anything that she tells him, and she understands that she must not betray him with that power. Betrayal is not the way of their family. No, their way is revenge.

She wakes up, alone in her room. Her bed is cold. She whispers his name, "Derek."

Outside, in the distance, she hears the long lonely howl of a wolf.

2.

Derek wakes up with the god of all headaches. As usual, he can't remember his dreams and as he rises from the tangle of sheets there is a feeling of loss pressing down on him like a suit of armor. His family, his pack, all gone. He has tried to make a new family, but it's not the same. Not that it's fair to compare them – the powerful and ancient Hale family with their dark blood full of magic to a band of high school outsiders who don't deserve the gift, but won't fight it either. Yet somehow, the outsiders won – they're alive while the Hales are all dead. Almost.

This is what he's been reduced to. Leading a pack of children, and none of them born wolves. And he can't shake the feeling that this never would have happened, that he never would have sunk so low, if Laura were still alive.

Or Peter…

No, forget Peter. Fuck Peter. He was a murderer and a thief and a liar and a monster.

And an Alpha.

Not like him.

And this is where Derek begins and ends every day: with the knowledge that he is Alpha by right of conquest but that it's a hollow victory because it's just not in him. He's faking it and he just wants to run for the hills and become an Omega when he looks at these desperate wounded souls he's made into wolves. They follow him around thinking that he knows things. He doesn't know anything. He was never supposed to lead. If it hadn't been for the fire, if the loss hadn't driven Peter mad, he would still just be Derek. Beta, and forgiven.

He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment. In the empty room inside his head, words are echoing: Won't you save me?

"Lydia," he murmurs, then shakes his head. That's not right. He tries again: "Laura."

He stands up. Today is the day he's going to teach the pack to call one another. Somehow, Scott figured out the howl on his own. It was actually very annoying that Scott was so good at being a wolf and yet wanted no part of Derek's pack. It actually…hurt Derek's feelings. And also made him furious, because what was the use of refusing to be with your own kind? What was Scott hoping to get out of it?

Allison. Oh yes, love. Derek has never been in love (except in a dream that he can't quite remember) but he knew from his father's stories that it was dangerous to love a human. And it went without saying that it was dangerous to love an Argent.

"Derek?" The voice on the other side of the door is almost fearful. Erica. Around other boys she is brazen and wanton and angry, but around him she's like a child tiptoeing behind the back of an abusive parent. Don't hit me, please.

Not that she's afraid that he'll hit her. He rejected her advances, and it got under her skin. He doesn't blame her – the fact that she has known nothing but mockery her whole life is what made it so easy to persuade her to accept the bite. If memory served, it had taken less than three minutes for her to say yes. And she wanted him, both because he was Alpha and because was apart from the high school and didn't carry any of its tainted memories of her.

"What?" He tries to sound like Peter, like Laura, but instead he just sounds tired.

"It's after ten. I made you breakfast."

That reminds him of the time he stood in the kitchen doorway and watched Lydia tease Peter. No, Laura. But Laura didn't have red hair, and he remembers that part most clearly – such beautiful hair. And when she turned and looked (smiled) at him, he didn't think _sister_. Not at all.

"You made breakfast?" He lives in an abandoned subway. No power outlets.

A pause, then, "I got you a biscuits and gravy from KFC."

"Yeah, okay. I'll be right out." He waits until he can hear her footsteps echoing down the tracks before rising and peeling off his t-shirt and track pants. In the corner of the room he has claimed as his own is a shower that he rigged using a water pipe and a camp shower kit from the Academy Sports in Madisonville. He stands under it and scrubs himself with a bar of soap. Irish Spring, Laura's favorite.

What does Lydia like? He tilts his head under the cool downpour and considers this. She wears a lot of girly things, so maybe something that smells like flowers? But no, because her mind is like the engine of an Italian sportscar and isn't interested in a lot of nonsense in the shower. Not that kind of nonsense, anyway.

Her red hair in his hands, slipping between his fingers.

A spark of heat flares at the small of his back, as though he can still feel her hand there.

With a curse, Derek shuts off the water. Maybe this is what happens when you become an Alpha – you lose what's left of your mind. Look at Peter!

But then there was Laura, so good and strong and right all the time (not like him). And before her there was Amelia, his mother, who made sure that everyone understood that "family" and "pack" were one and the same. They had all gone on the hunt together, all seven Hales that were wolves, and Mom's voice had been gentle in his mind when he caught the scent of human on the night air. "No, Derek," was all she had said, and the bloodlust disappeared like a whisper in a storm. He had a feeling that if any of his wolves got close to a human on the full moon, nothing he could say would stop them from seeking blood and bone between their teeth.

So maybe the difference was becoming an Alpha by killing instead of by natural passing. Laura had become Alpha after Mom had been killed in a car accident. And even though he'd always known that one could become Alpha by conquest, no Hale had ever broken faith that way. Not until Peter. And Peter had been driven mad by grief after the fire. That's why he'd killed Laura.

Wasn't it?

He grabs a towel from the floor and dries quickly. It really is cold down here, and not even being a werewolf takes the edge off. Plus, it's always dark. It makes him long for the house he grew up (saw Lydia) in. The sunshine on the walls, pale in the morning and dark gold in the afternoon. The sound of laughter, the smell of laundry, the constant thumping of feet on the stairs and the creaking of doors opening and closing. The house had been so full of life, and now it was nothing but a blackened shell.

Just like him. Even now, after all this time, he didn't feel like the man he used to be. Maybe he never would.

He rummages through the clothes he's shoved in an old cardboard box (dresser burned up) until he finds jeans and a t-shirt that aren't obviously stained and pulls them on. Now it's time to teach his wolves how to be Hales.

He walks out of his room into the tunnels. Today's lessons had better bring some progress. The first full moon since he had made his pack was only a few days away, and he was beginning to seriously consider the possibility that they might not be ready. If he couldn't teach them control in time, he would have to lock them up. Or kill them.

3. Book

Lydia's favorite place in Beacon Hills is the public library on Division Street. It was built in 1923 after a tornado had ripped through the town one autumn night and razed half of the buildings downtown, including the old library. Sometimes Lydia tries to imagine what it would be like to see that kind of awesome devastation: one minute things are there, the next they are gone. It didn't seem possible, but it happened every day. Even now, somewhere in the world, something is being destroyed.

When she was a little girl, she spent whole days at the library, especially when her parents started fighting. Between the tall stacks of books, volumes lined up spine to spine, she would run her fingers over the bindings and forget the yelling and the crying and lose herself in all of the knowledge and ideas that tumbled from the pages.

She stands in the library foyer now, the marble floor seeping cold into the soles of her feet through her ballet flats. She feels a little lost. She doesn't know why she's here now, on a Saturday morning. She should be sleeping off a hangover or sneaking Jackson out of her bedroom. No, that's what she used to do. She's here now because when things get confusing and she can't stand to be left in her own mind any longer, this is the refuge.

She walks up to the circulation desk and leaves her bag behind the counter. She doesn't recognize the librarian, a young man with blonde hair. How long has it been since she came here? Her eyes wander up to the great chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. She used to love looking at that chandelier, but the thousand little points of lights twinkling from its crystal prisms now seem blinding. She looks away and wanders into the main reading room.

There are two parallel rows of long, polished wooden tables. Green banker's lamps rest on every table top, with four chairs facing the front of the room. On the wall opposite her is a large reproduction of the Bayeux Tapestry. There are people sitting at the tables; not surprising, but it annoys Lydia. She feels like this is a private place where she should be alone with the books and her thoughts. One of the people closest to her, an older man with watery blue eyes and wispy hair, looks up and meets her eyes. Lydia darts into the stacks to her right, wary. The idea that she should watch that man, follow him, make sure he isn't a threat, arcs through her mind and then dissolves.

It's a man in the library reading a book. Nothing wrong with that.

Giving herself a mental shake, Lydia turns away from the tables (and the man) and begins to wind her way through the stacks. She figured out the Dewey Decimal system on her own when she was seven, but she doesn't look at the numbers now. As she walks she raises her hands and runs the tip of her fingers down the spines of books on the row just above eye-level. Impulsively, she pulls a book down without looking at the cover and opens it. A poem. Her eyes rest in the middle of the page and she reads

Laura stretched her gleaming neck

Like a rush-imbedded swan,

Like a lily from the beck,

Like a moonlit poplar branch,

Like a vessel at the launch

When its last restraint is gone.

She closes her eyes and rips the page from the book, putting the volume back on the shelf without looking (because she can sense the empty space) to see where it belongs. With trembling hands, she folds the page carefully three times (three to keep it safe) and puts in the pocket of her tweed jacket. She realizes with a jolt that she wore this jacket yesterday. And the day before. She doesn't do things like that, unless someone likes that article of clothing and she's trying to catch his eye. But there's been no one like that since (Derek) Jackson.

"Lydia."

She opens her eyes. No one is there. But there's a scent on the air. Soap and dirt and…something dark. It reminds her a little of Jackson, but wilder. Dangerous. And then Derek's voice.

"He's going to…"

It's just a whisper really, seems to be coming from the mezzanine level, where the history and folklore books are kept. She knows those holdings well. Once, in seventh grade, she wrote a fourteen page paper for English on the evolution of the Little Red Riding Hood (Little Red Cap) fairy tale. Her teacher had called it "brilliant but disturbing."

Up the stairs she goes, into the stacks. The whispering doesn't come back, but there's a strange burning at the base of her skull. It's not unpleasant, and it makes her feel like she's glowing, illuminated from the inside. A flutter, like the touch of first love, begins in her stomach. She knows exactly where to go, as though the path were laid out before her in chalk.

In crumbled ash.

The book is slightly pulled away from the volumes on either side of it, and when she reaches for it she could swear it falls into her hand, open to the page with an illustration of a tremendous wolf/man with hot coal eyes. Underneath the picture, The Beast of Bray Road is printed in an old, curling typeface. On the opposite page, she reads the word werewolf and she understands.

She is very smart. She understands everything. The man who bit her was a werewolf. His eyes, his teeth - oh god, his teeth.

Then it comes like a flood over a levee, the memory of those two days she'd wandered the woods. She'd gone to the Hale House, what was left of it. She'd sought out the one who'd bitten her, marked her, called her. But he wasn't there. Instead, the stink of death was in the ground under a great gnarled oak behind the house. She'd dug the soft earth with her fingers, hours and hours it seemed, until she'd reached him. Peter. Sorrow so sharp had gripped her then, and she had screamed and wept and wailed but he was still dead.

And then she began to see things through his eyes. His wife, with flashing dark eyes, and their three beautiful children. All of them dying in the fire. And him, burned but healing so slowly. Killing Laura and beginning the long transformation to Alpha. The nurse. The rage, the need for vengeance.

The spiral. The end is the beginning. Revenge was the way of all wolf families, because it kept the secret deep. Anyone who sought them out and struck them down had to be eliminated. Knowledge must not be allowed to spread. And now that Peter was gone, she would have to make the one who killed him pay, to keep the secret safe.

The one who killed him. She could see Peter's face in her mind's eye as he waited for the death blow (flesh burned, again), but she didn't see who delivered it. Was Peter keeping it from her? But why would he do that?

And what about Derek, the one who kissed her, the one whose touch made her feel like she was more and could be more than that if only he would keep kissing her until the moon went from full to half to new?

A ghost's cold kiss on her forehead. I made you for myself, she hears. Not the same as the Derek-whisper that drew her here – this is Peter's voice. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end. But now you belong to him…like everything else that was mine.

So much loss. Lydia feels full and empty at the same time.

Somewhere on the first floor, a book is dropped with a bang so loud it jolts Lydia back to awareness. She doesn't know why she hasn't changed, but now that she remembered being bitten, remembered the fire and (the dead people) Peter and the spiral, it was only a matter of time before she would put it together.

Anger stings her. Peter had showed her his interactions with Scott, Stiles, Allison. They had known all about what happened to her, who Peter was and what he wanted. They knew that she had been bitten, that Peter was dead, and that she could be transforming. But they had told her nothing.

Sometimes the people closest to you…

She takes the book to the circulation desk and checks it out. There is so much more she needs to know, but this was the only book on werewolves that looked even somewhat credible. She would use the Internet to find out more. She couldn't look for help from her friends.

She is alone. And now that Peter is gone, she is afraid that she will be alone forever.

4. Call

In the woods at night, Derek is listening for his pack. Of course, he can _hear_ them because they're crashing around like kids in a restaurant (stealth is another lesson), but he's waiting for one of them to send the call. Just one of them. Boyd, maybe. Boyd is the least damaged of the three of his progeny, and consequently spends less time reveling in his sudden strength and animal magnetism and more time listening and learning from his Alpha.

So Derek waits. And waits. From somewhere off on his left, he hears what sounds suspiciously like a giggle from Erica. So glad she's having a good time.

His patience, something he never had that much of to begin with, is wearing thing. His hands are shaking slightly. He finds that, in the past few days, he's been sleeping longer and longer (trying to make the dreams last) but is getting less rest. He feels strung out and tight as a tripwire, ready to punch something or break something or…find that girl and tear her clothes off. That's what he'd _like_ to do. And the fact that he's obsessing over someone who isn't real (maybe) is just a testament to how long it's been since he's been laid.

A long time. An _eternity_. Nothing regular since Kate fucking Argent, who he refused to think about. But it was strange, because even after she'd betrayed him and killed his family and strung him up to torture him, he'd still thought that maybe she had loved him, once. Now he found that he didn't care what she'd felt. The Argents were zealots and all of them could go to hell. Allison (especially) included, for all that she seemed to really be in love with Scott.

And yes, he could admit now that he had been jealous of Allison and Scott. It had stung more fiercely than he could put into words that his Argent hadn't been moved by him at all, while Scott's Argent couldn't keep her hands or eyes or heart to herself. What did Scott have that he didn't have?

But now it seemed so clear that he had gotten that question wrong from the beginning – it should have been "what did Allison have that Kate didn't have?" And he had the answer to that one: a fucking soul.

So he's decided to let the Allison thing implode on its own, as it surely will. Scott will become one of his pack eventually. And in the mean time, he has his memories of Lydia's hair and Lydia's skin and Lydia's lips…

"Goddamnit," he growls. He needs to focus on being the Alpha and not on this Lydia that his subconscious had created to drive him to new heights of sexual frustration. The full moon is coming soon and the way things are going, his wolves were going to eat half the town before it was all over.

Closing his eyes, he focuses on his awareness of Erica, Isaac, and Boyd. They are bright flames in his mind, pricking his consciousness. There is also his awareness of Scott, but it is much weaker and further away. Scott had been part of Peter's pack, and once Derek had taken Peter's power as an Alpha, he had gotten Scott along with it. Not that he had pressed the point with Scott, but there it was.

He reaches out in his mind to his three young pack members. The power of the Alpha, like wires strung along the lines of his veins, surges – he can feel his Betas come to attention. He wanted them to call him, but he'll make it easy this time. He opens his mouths and the Alpha call rolls out like fog over a river.

_Answer me_, the call commands. As he suspected, Boyd is first. His call begins thin and uncertain but deepens until it fills the air – _I am here_, Boyd's call tells him. For the first time that night, Derek smiles. Erica is next. She surprises him – her call is perfect from beginning to end. Then again, Erica is actually good at a number of practical Beta skills, but she is easily distracted. Especially by Stiles, which is sort of hilarious. Of course, Derek doesn't begrudge her that, since Stiles is probably the only human that he's ever completely trusted, and the kid does have a sort of quirky endearing quality – when he isn't making Derek want to hit him over the head with a deck chair. But Stiles really redefined "oblivious." For all that Erica was now undeniably lovely, Stiles still spent all of his time pining over…

Lydia.

It's like a stone catches in his throat. But no, it had to be a coincidence. He's never met Stiles' Lydia, so he must have just subconsciously appropriated the name. Yes, it had to be just a coincidence. But hadn't Stiles once said something about strawberry blond hair and green eyes? Actually, Stiles had said something about that at least a dozen times. "She's the most beautiful girl in the world," Stiles had told him once. "Five foot three, strawberry blonde, green eyes, a face like an angel…"

Her face, her body - all of her forms so clearly in his mind's eye then that it takes his breath away. He dimly hears Isaac's call, but for a moment that stretches out like unspooled ribbon all Derek sees is her. Lydia. _Lydia_.

Light in the darkness. Beginning at the end.

The realization thunders through him: she's real. She's in this town. She's at the high school. He can see her any day he wants to. He can send Isaac and Boyd and Erica to go get her and bring her to him. He can shut her up in a subway car with him and they…and they…and she…

"Derek?"

He blinks. He's disoriented. Where is he? The woods, yes. Not far from his house (but he doesn't live there anymore). Erica, Boyd, and Isaac are standing in front of him. They look worried.

"Uh…good job, guys," he says. Even he knows how lame that sounds, but what is he supposed to say? Sorry for the zone out, I was just thinking of having you guys abduct a sixteen-year-old girl so I can convince her to let me kiss every single inch of her while I send all of you out on some five hour mission and then I'll never talk to Stiles again but it will be worth it and now that I think about I may have to kill him but maybe when it's all over I can finally get some sleep.

Yeah. No.

Erica arches an eyebrow. Boyd clears his throat.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" Derek barks. "Scatter and let's do it again. We'll keep this up until you guys can initiate the call. We've got to make sure we can all communicate if there's trouble – you can't depend on me all the time."

His three Betas disappear into the trees. Derek resists the sudden urge to howl at the waxing moon. A howl for joy. Lydia, I have found you!


	2. Chapter 2

Lydia sits on her bed, the only light a yellow cone that emanates from the lamp on her bedside table. In front of her a tumble of books – on werewolves, Greek and Celtic mythology, shape shifters, curses, herbs, magic, anything she could think of that looked like it might yield any clues – cover almost every inch of her quilt. On her lap is a spiral-bound notebook that she has filled with pages and pages of notes her in impeccable cursive.

As far as she can tell, two things could have happened to her when she was bitten by Peter. She could become a werewolf, or she could die. But she hadn't done either of those things. Why?

Lydia had initially thought that she might be immune to Peter's bite. Despite the more conventional assertions in werewolf mythology that immunity was impossible, she had found an account of a woman in 10th century Ireland who had been bitten by a "master wolf" and had not died or transformed. Of course, this later turned out to be because the woman was a selkie, a different type of shape shifter. Apparently, you could only turn into one thing at a time. So it seems that there is no true immunity, at least not as far as she can tell.

Annoyed, Lydia snaps the book she was reading on wolves in Norse mythology shut and tosses it aside. She'd found these books at Allison's house, and did not feel bad at all over getting herself past Mr. Argent by claiming to have left schoolbooks in Allison's room and instead waltzing out with a backpack full of titles from the Argent library. She isn't sure why the Argents have so many very authentic looking texts on werewolves, shape shifters, and a host of other creatures she sincerely hoped were not real.

"Add it to the list of things people haven't told me," she mutters and glares at her notes. She briefly considers going to Stiles and making him tell her everything, but she dismisses the idea. Ever since she'd recovered the memories of her friends from Peter she's been fighting back a simmering anger that it totally unlike her. It was all she could do right now not to tear her bedroom apart in frustration.

She unfolds her legs, gets off the bed and begins pacing. She feels the need to do...something. Anything. She's never been a sports person but she thinks she could run a marathon right now.

A scratching sound outside of her window jolts her out of her thoughts. Is someone there? Jackson would never climb up the trellis to her window, even though she had once asked him to. Even the promise of illicit activities was not enough to get Mr. Whittemore to risk injury to his perfect self.

Lydia crosses the room on bare feet and approaches the window warily. Her reflection surprises her. She feels like a rubber band stretched almost to the point of breaking, but the Lydia looking back at her looks...fierce. Purposeful. Imposing.

She hears the scratching again. Her hands curl reflexively into fists and she crouches slightly, angling her body so that she will have inertia behind her if she has to smash her fist into someone's face.

Wait...what?

"Lydia!"

The face on the other side of the glass appears so quickly that Lydia nearly screams.

"Scott!" she hisses. "What the hell are you doing?"

Scott doesn't look even slightly sorry about scaring the life out of her (and almost getting his face ripped off) and Lydia lifts the window sash. "I just want you to know how deeply creepy this is," she tells him.

"I need to talk to you."

As far as Lydia can tell, he's clinging to the side of the house like a squirrel and he doesn't seem to have any trouble at all hanging on. She rolls her eyes at the 'this is very serious' earnestness on his face but waves him inside. He leaps over the sill and is standing in front of her so quickly and gracefully that she finds herself smiling just a little. Even though it kind of pisses her off even more because she knows why he can do this: he's a goddamn werewolf.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Well?" She doesn't even try to conceal her annoyance.

Scott looks around her room and his eyes pause for a moment on a purple bra laying beside the bed but she'll be damned if she's embarrassed because it's her room and it's not like he RSVP'd his visit.

"Uh..." He finally meets her eyes. "I had a dream about you."

The silence that hangs between them is epic.

Lydia breaks it. "So? I mean, as flattering as that is..."

"You don't understand," Scott blurts out. "In my dream, your eyes were red. And you held out your hand to me, and I had to take it. I mean, I *had* to. And then there is the pull I've felt and it's getting stronger and stronger, and I told myself I was definitely not going to come over here but then I was here. So, I have to tell you something because I finally figured it out. I mean, I've felt this before."

Lydia inhales sharply. "If you're about to say that you felt the same way about Allison..."

"No, no!" Scott shakes his head vigorously and Lydia nearly slumps with relief. Not that she didn't think about Scott that way for about five minutes when he turned out to be a lacrosse prodigy and she was trying to make Jackson jealous, but he was really not (Derek) her type.

"I mean that I felt this way when Peter was around."

All of the witty retorts poised on her tongue dry up and turn to ash in her mouth. "What?" Her own voice sounds strained, not like her at all. "What do you mean?"

Scott throws up his hands. "I don't know! This makes no sense! You didn't change, you didn't..." He stops short, eyes wide and horrified. "I mean, what I mean is..."

The anger is back with a vengeance, searing through her veins like lava. Unthinking, she opens her mouth and screams at him, but it isn't a scream - it is a roar; the sound thunders through her lungs and her heart and crashes into the air. Scott drops to his knees and averts his eyes.

"Don't lie to me," she tells him and her voice is amplified somehow - it is Lydia but more than Lydia. "Never lie to me again, Scott."

"I won't, I swear." He literally cringes and the anger ebbs somewhat. She feels strangely satisfied with his display of obedience, and his presence so close to her feels right somehow. She wants to run in the woods with him, howl with him, hunt with him.

And it hits her. "I'm a werewolf," she murmurs. Of course, Scott hears her.

"Lydia," he breathes, still on his knees and still not looking directly at her. "You are a werewolf. But it's not just that."

She blinks at him. "Get up," she says. The strange powerful echo that her voice had taken on just moments ago is gone, but Scott obeys instantly. "This makes no sense. The full moon has come and gone, but I didn't change." She gestures at the books on her bed. "I've read every single one of these stupid things and they all say that you change or you die and I didn't do either!"

Scott nods. "I don't get it either. I mean, there's a lot about this that I don't understand. But Lydia, you're definitely a werewolf. And I don't know why you didn't change with the full moon, but..."

He steps closer to her and slowly, carefully, rests his hands on her shoulders. There's a just a hint of fear in his eyes. "You're not a werewolf like me. You're like the one who made us."

Lydia's eyes widen as she watches Scott pause, seeming to work up the courage for his next words. He looks so young. He is so young.

Scott's voice is barely a whisper when he says, "You're an Alpha."


	3. Chapter 3

Under the light of the waxing moon the pavement shimmers like the surface of a black river. Derek stands away from the glare of the street lamps, his night vision allowing him to see the sleeping neighborhood in perfect, vivid clarity. When he was just a boy, eight or nine, Peter had taught him, Laura, and their cousin Val to leap from shadow to shadow with their wolf speed and agility so as to stay out of sight. Humans would see of a flicker of movement (if they saw anything) but by the time they turned to look closer, the wolf would be gone.

It is this skill Derek used to get here from the old subway, and it is this skill he uses to close the distance between the street where he stood contemplating the rows of houses and the open window of Stiles' bedroom. It wasn't unusual for homeowners in Southern California not to have air conditioning and to use open windows and doors to let the air circulate, but the Stilinskis kept the windows open at night because, frankly, there were no women in the house anymore and the place tended to smell like beer and gym socks. The time Derek had spent here had nearly killed him because of his finely tuned olfactory senses. It was one of the few times he'd really hated being a werewolf.

But he barely notices the smell now. Instead, he perches on the windowsill like a crow for a moment, looking at Stiles asleep in his bed. Annoying. It's only eleven - why is he asleep already? Then again, it is a school night.

Derek misses school. He misses his life in New York, misses simplicity. He'd been a literature major at NYU. Not anymore.

He shakes his head, willing that old bitterness away. His life apart from Beacon Hills was over, no matter how much Laura had wanted something more for him (and for herself). Anyway, he needs to be focusing on how he's going to go about this. He tries to think of a way to start this conversation without pissing Stiles off royally.

Hey, Stiles, you know that girl you've loved since third grade? Well, I need her address so I can convince her to be with me forever. Or at least for a weekend. An hour. No hard feelings, right?

Shit.

Even though Stiles could be the most annoying person on the planet, Derek honestly did not want to hurt him. He was, in many ways, the bravest person Derek had ever met and he didn't deserve this. If Derek were even half as decent as Stiles, he'd forget about Lydia and the dreams (and her skin and her eyes) and just let it go.

The wolf in him rejects this argument altogether. In fact, the wolf really doesn't give a damn about anything but getting Lydia underneath him as quickly as possible. Or on top of him. A hot flash of arousal hits Derek at the combined force of those two images assaulting him in rapid succession, and he draws in a ragged breath. This is making him crazy. Maybe if he just meets her this will be over, like the prick of a needle - a lot of build-up for a moment's pain. Either way, he can't just sit here forever, deliberating. For once, he needs to act like the Alpha he is.

He leaps down from the windowsill and lands on the carpet without a sound. Peter taught him that too.

"Stiles," he whispers. Nothing. Stiles is dead to the world, mouth slack. A thin silver line of drool tracks down his chin. Derek rolls his eyes and gives the boy a light shake of the shoulders. This could not wait until morning, damnit. "Stiles," he tries again, a little louder this time.

Nothing.

"Stiles!" he bellows, and Stiles jolts awake with such a violent start that he tumbles from the bed, sheets tangled around he legs.

"Whathehellman?" Stiles manages, eyes open but bleary with sleep.

Derek holds out a hand to help Stiles to his feet. The teenager eyes the hand warily before he takes it. "Dude," he grumbles. "What time is it? Has someone died? Wait, seriously...has someone died?"

"No, no." Derek holds his hands up and Stiles exhales, his look of concern falling into one of suspicion.

"Uh..." Stiles gives him a pointed look. "Then what do you want?"

Derek runs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous. He's an Alpha, he shouldn't be getting nervous! And yet, this suddenly seemed like the most asinine idea ever. If he just knew her last name...or, Jesus, if he just had access to the Internet, he wouldn't be reduced to this.

"Dude, spit it out!" Stiles looks impatient. "I have a test first period tomorrow and need my beauty sleep."

"Yeah. Okay," Derek says. "Well, the thing is...I need to...have you..." Fuck. This wasn't going so well.

"You need to have me?" Stiles looks horrified.

"What? No, you moron." Derek puts his hands on his hips. "I need you to tell me where Lydia lives. Oh, uh, and what her last name is. It's important..." He looks up at the ceiling. No inspiration there. "Pack business," he finishes lamely. "It's important pack business."

Any hopes he had that this would prevent questions are instantly dashed.

"What kind of pack business involves Lydia?" Stiles leans over and flicks on the lamp on his dresser. He gives the werewolf a glare. "You'd better tell me. If it concerns her it concerns me."

Great. "Well, it's confidential."

"What are you, a lawyer? Why is it confidential?"

Derek stamps down his desire to get out of this house immediately. "Look, I just can't tell you right now because I honestly don't know. I've been having some, uh, visions lately and Lydia is a part of them. I need to ask her some questions, that's all. So just...tell me where to find her."

Stiles didn't look convinced, but the longing looks he is throwing at his bed give Derek hope. "Okay. But if this results in any harm to her whatsoever, I will personally shoot you with a silver bullet."

Stiles' empty threat didn't do a thing to dam the wave of elation that hit him. He was almost there!

"She lives on Broadmoor Street. At the end, by the woods. The big house with the pool." Stiles sat down on the edge of the bed and gave him a look that said, happy now?

A shiver passes through him. That house...was the house closest to the house he'd grown up in. The first house he would see traveling down the road into Beacon Hills from home. How many times had he looked at that place? Had he ever see her there before?

"Thanks, Stiles." Derek goes to the window and puts his hands on the sill. Before launching himself out and into the night (to her) he looks at Stiles, who is now back under the covers, reaching in vain towards the lamp that is now too far away. "It means a lot to me."

He didn't know how to apologize for what he was going to do - and the very idea that Lydia might somehow belong to (anyone else) Stiles made him want to kill something. So he left.

He knew exactly where he was going.


	4. Chapter 4

Lydia stands in the parking lot of the veterinary clinic in her pajamas, a pair of scuffed Uggs and a light coat. Her long russet hair is unbound and her arms are crossed over her chest, not because she's cold – she suspects she will never be cold again – but because she's a little pissed off. Scott had promised insight, answers, information, all mysteries revealed and so on. And now here they were at the animal hospital on Sepulveda Street, across from the CVS.

"I was expecting some grand underground lair," she observes, her voice tight. "Not a vet's office. Actually, I think I'm a little insulted."

Scott shrugs, still not meeting her eyes. "This is where he works. He's good with animals."

She intends to say something to the effect that she's not a goddamn animal but instead an actual growl rumbles out of her chest. Scott looks alarmed, and she's immediately contrite. She knows (Peter says) that keeping her happy is important to Scott, and she doesn't want to ruin that.

Keep the pack strong, she thinks. Keep the Beta close.

Annoyed, Lydia shakes her head. As soon as Scott had told her that she was an Alpha, things had just clicked into place in her mind but she wasn't entirely comfortable with these new thoughts she was having. For one thing, she'd spent most of the drive here clamping down on a very odd desire to command Scott to move in with her. Not that he would be anywhere near her bedroom – that was (not for him) totally off limits – but she knew in her bones that keeping him nearby was best. She was stronger when he was by her side. She could feel it.

More Betas would be better. She knows this too. But the thought of biting someone, of being so intimately connected to them as a creator, a leader…she was absolutely not ready for that yet. Although it had crossed her mind that Stiles would be a good choice. So would Danny. Absolutely not Jackson – he is way too self-involved to put the pack first. Allison she was less sure of. She still didn't know why the Argents seemed to know so much about the supernatural, but they were definitely not werewolves. In fact, the thought of seeing Allison at school tomorrow made her stomach coil with unease, even though she couldn't articulate why.

Scott walks up to the front door of the vet's office, where a "Sorry, We're Closed" sign hangs in the window. He doesn't knock; instead he jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans and Lydia rolls her eyes.

"Don't you work here?" She asks. "Do you have a key or are you going to unlock the door with your mind?"

Scott gives her a crooked smile. "I called Dr. Deaton before I came to your house. He should be here already. I'm not sure, but I think he might sleep here."

As if on cue, the sign on the door is flipped over to read "Yes, We're Open!" Lydia comes to stand beside Scott as the door swings inward, revealing a dark-skinned man with kind eyes. He looks at Lydia. His gaze isn't hostile, not exactly, but there is something appraising in it. After a few seconds in which Lydia feels uncomfortably like a pinned butterfly, Dr. Deaton smiles.

"Miss Martin," he says. "Please come in. You too, Scott."

Scott turns and looks at Lydia. She meets his eyes briefly before he quickly looks away. Repressing an urge to sigh, she walks into the clinic and Scott follows. The waiting room is dark and smells strongly of bleach.

"Let's go back to the exam room," Dr. Deaton says, walking down an equally dark hallway.

Lydia turns to Scott. "Exam room?" She hisses and Scott smiles a little.

"That's where he likes to talk about werewolf…stuff. It might be protected somehow, I don't know."

Lydia sighs, not even wanting to know what he means by 'protected.' She peers down the hallway. It's not really so dark after all; she can see doors lining the hallway and a few empty wire cages stacked up at the far end. This is a place for animals, she thinks. Nothing bad is going to happen here. She doesn't quite believe that, but she can feel Scott watching her and she can't stop the urge to make a show of bravery for him. So she squares her shoulders, tosses her glorious hair back and stalks down the hallway to the Exam Room. The door is open and she walks inside. Scott follows and shuts the door behind him.

The room is dark – the only light comes from an overhead fluorescent lamp that casts a concentrated beam down into the metal table that dominates the room. The light is for surgery, Lydia realizes. She suppresses a shudder. Then she notices what's on the table.

When she was younger, Lydia went through a mythology period – she devoured every book she could find on the old religions of the world, from North America to Australia to Asia and everywhere in between, but her favorite was Celtic. Maybe it was because her mother's family was Irish, but Lydia had always been drawn to the legends of the ancient people of Ireland and Britain. So she knew what she was looking at now, drawn on the table with what looked like colored sand: a triskele. The symbol has three arms: one golden, one blue, one black. The black arm is pointed towards her.

"What's that for?" She asks, stepping closer. The lines of the triskele seem to waver as she comes nearer so she stops and looks at Dr. Deaton. He isn't looking at the symbol on the table, he is looking at her. Like he expects something to happen. She turns to look at Scott.

"Derek has that tattooed on him," Scott says. "On his back. What does it mean?"

Dr. Deaton says something, but Lydia doesn't quite make it out. Scott's words echo through her head like rolling thunder: Derek has….Derek has…Derek…

"Derek," she whispers, so low no one hears it but her. She turns to look back at the triskele and it *moves*, turning so that the golden arm is pointing towards her.

"Well, that settles that," Dr. Deaton says.

Lydia feels lightheaded and distracted. Derek is real. Scott knows him. Scott will take her to Derek. And then what? Her hands are shaking.

"Settles," she croaks, then takes a deep breath and pushes Derek out of her mind for the moment. What Deaton is saying is important, and she needs to listen. "Settles what?"

Dr. Deaton smiles at her, but it's wary. "You're an Alpha, my dear. No question. A made Alpha too, which is something I have never seen personally. Very unusual. You must be quite something."

"She is," Scott says, and Lydia can actually feel herself blush.

Dr. Deaton nods. "And Scott is your Beta. I don't need the old magic to tell me that." He takes in the sight of the two of them, Scott standing behind Lydia and to her right. "That's good for you, Miss Martin. You'll need help. You're not the only Alpha in this town, and I'm afraid that two Alphas in the same territory is one Alpha too many. I'll help you in any way I can, of course, but the best thing would be for you to leave Beacon Hills as soon as possible. Do you have relatives you can stay with? Tricky, though, because Scott will have to go with you…"

"Wait a second," Lydia says and holds up a hand. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my home. I was born in this shitty town, my whole family lives here and all of my friends are here, and I won't give it up without a fight."

Dr. Deaton sighs. "Two Alphas can't be in the same territory, Miss Martin. Well…not for long, anyway. The Alpha urges will make you want to do everything you can to eliminate threats to your dominance, and another Alpha is the greatest threat of all. Conflict is inevitable."

Lydia shrugs. "So we'll conflict. I'll win. I always do." Bravado is a Martin family specialty. She'll work in believing it later.

"It's not that simple," Dr. Deaton says. Lydia bristles at the sympathy in his voice. "You have no chance against a born werewolf. He's been honing his skills since he could walk. You've been a werewolf for a few weeks. You have one Beta, he has three – a full pack."

A bolt of anger hits Lydia. She needs a pack. Like, yesterday. All of her new instincts demand it.

"I'm sorry, Miss Martin. I just don't think you have much of a chance against Derek." Dr. Deaton reaches for her hand, but Lydia has gone cold and doesn't respond. Derek is the other Alpha. And according to Deaton, he's going to try to kill her.


	5. Chapter 5

Derek closes the distance between Lydia's house and Stiles' place in under ten minutes, which is impressive even if one takes into consideration how not big Beacon Hills really is. He uses that time to ponder the fact that he has no plan whatsoever. As an Alpha, he should not be hurtling headlong into potentially dangerous situations without some kind of strategy. And this was definitely a dangerous situation. He dreamed this girl; he knew her name without even having met her. That should really be worrying him, but there are a lot of weird things that go along with being a werewolf. So this is a new and bizarre development – big deal.

Except that the part of him that takes after Laura knows that this really isn't normal, and it's not okay for new strange things to happen without precedent. And sometimes in his dreams of Lydia, Peter is there. What does that mean?

He ponders this, gazing at her house. It's nice, in kind of a McMansion way. Just looking at the overly manicured lawn and the German luxury cars in the driveway tells Derek a few things about Lydia. One, her parents are not going to like him. At all. Two, if she agrees to go out with him, he will being paying for _everything_.

Assuming that he asks her out and doesn't just launch straight into a plea for… For what?

Derek swallows. What does he want from her, anyway? How is he supposed to tell her that he has these dreams and it's like they've been together since birth, since opening his eyes (even though he is older than her, but still the possibility of her was there inside of him), and he feels like he has her in his bones and if he could just have her nearby, the world wouldn't seem so dark?

There isn't a way to do this that won't make him seem completely insane, and plus he's going to have to tell her he's a werewolf which is going to be really, really awkward. Still, he's an Alpha. Can't be cowed by fear.

Derek takes a few purposeful strides toward the front door, ready to knock and ask to see Lydia and stand in front of her when it hits him. There is a wolf nearby.

He focuses on his sense of smell, letting sight fade and following the deep, earthy scent of…Alpha. He can actually _feel_ his eyes redden and his claws begin to extend. A sharp concoction of fury, fear, and resolve churns through his blood. Beacon Hills is his. Lydia is his!

Must find it. Must kill it.

The scent leads him around to the back of the house. A wrought-iron gate leads to a back yard bracketed with white trellises laced with small yellow flowers. A jewel-blue pool sits in the center of a concrete patio, a lazy evening mist curling over the water. Tranquil, quiet. Except for the harsh growl that creeps out of Derek's throat.

It was here, and recently. Did it take her? Did it touch her? The growl slides into a snarl and Derek fights for control. He also notes, dimly, that he can smell Scott back here as well, but that's not a surprise. Scott and Lydia are friends, right? Sort of? Jesus, what if the Alpha has Scott too? Since the younger werewolf has refused to join Derek's pack, there is no way for Derek to feel him, no way to be sure he is okay.

Derek shakes his head and concentrates on the scent, follows it to the exterior wall of the house, and when it leads up, he goes up – digging his now fully extended claws into the brick and mortar. He reaches a second story window and nearly loses his grip on the wall, so overcome is he at this new scent. Lydia. And she's everywhere.

This is her room.

Without a second thought, Derek hauls the window up, expecting the wood to splinter. He is surprised when the pane slides up easily, although it rattles in the casement in protest. Unlocked. For the second time tonight, Derek vaults into a teenager's bedroom though a window, but this is nothing like Stiles' man/boy-cave. This is Lydia's room. It doesn't just smell like her. She is everywhere. On the gray walls, surprisingly bare but for a few framed art prints. On the bed, covered in books, absent stuffed animals or embroidered pillows. On the vanity. In the closet. Lydia. And she's gone.

He tests the scents mingled in this room, tastes them. Lydia, Scott, the Alpha. They're all here, but there's no tang of fear, no curdle of pain. That should make him happy, give him hope. But it doesn't. He should have been here to save her, to save them both. A howl begins to tickle his throat, but he swallows it. Waking up Lydia's parents to find their daughter gone and a window open would not be good, even if he only needs seconds to make himself scarce.

Think, Derek, think. What would Laura do? He knew what Peter would do. Hunt down this Alpha, slit its throat. Laura…Laura would approach this logically. He wanted to be like Laura (not Peter, never him) and so Derek draws a deep breath and tries to think this through.

There is no Alpha in Beacon Hills but him. Since the Hales came here in the 1890's, someone from his family has always led the pack, and there have been no challenges in all those years. The closest outside pack that Derek is aware of is all the way in Santa Rosa, at least forty miles from here.

It could be an Omega looking to change its fortunes.

A thrill of fear snakes down Derek's spine. Word of the Hale family's fall has clearly spread. And when is the Conclave? Every twenty years? Ten? He hadn't thought of that until now. The gathering of the wolves of western North America – he has never been, although he dimly recalls his mother returning, muttering about how wolves and politics don't mix. In fact, he can't remember when the last one was, but if it happened this year and he missed it, the packs would know that something was wrong in Beacon Hills. But surely they would have sent someone, if that were true. Wouldn't they? The old way of doing things…pack wars, slaughters of whole werewolf families in battles over territory…was long gone. The advent of planes, trains and automobiles had eliminated the need for that kind of strife within a community that prized secrecy above all. Getting pushed out of your hunting grounds? Petition the Conclave or find new hunting grounds. Simple.

But an Omega, driven mad by solitude, would be outside of the Conclave's reach. It could challenge him and if it had a pack, it could beat him. He would lose everything, including Lydia. That couldn't happen.

Not again.

The logical thing to do would be to put in an inquiry with the Conclave about any officially-sanctioned move on his territory, to better determine whether or not this is all just a misunderstanding because he didn't show up at the werewolf club meeting and they just figured that all the Hales were dead and Beacon Hills was up for grabs.

Fuck that. He might not want to be like Peter, but sometimes logical only slowed you down when you needed to act fast. Besides, he didn't need the Conclave. He would follow the Alpha's scent until he had it cornered and bleeding in the leaves. And then he would save Scott and Lydia, and all would be right in the world again. Or closer to right, anyway.

Here was something worth fighting for. Now calm with purpose, Derek hones in on the Alpha's scent with a last look at Lydia's bedroom. He shivers at the sight of a nightgown pooled on the floor next to the bed, then closes his eyes and lets the Alpha's trace led him away.


End file.
